"how rosy you look!" said lady gerardine.
"i've been driving major bethune in the cart. and the pony went like an angel on four legs," said aspasia. "i suppose the wind caught my face."
she pressed the back of her hands to her cheeks, as she spoke, and her eyes danced above them. it was the rose of happiness and no evanescent wind bloom that glowed in her innocent childish countenance.
women's glances are cruelly quick to read the tender secrets of each other's souls. lady gerardine's look hardened as she still fixed the girl; her own wounded inconsequent heart was suddenly aflame with anger against her. not a fortnight ago had aspasia been setting flowers before the portrait of harry english and offering, in passionate love, melodies to that mystic presence. and it had been sufficient that this bethune's everyday substantiality should show itself, for the fickle creature to change allegiance. she had dared to think she loved harry english, and now she dared to desecrate this love!
they were in the drawing-room waiting the summons for lunch. bethune had not yet appeared. with an air of embarrassment very foreign to her, baby tossed off her hat and coat and moved restlessly to the piano. she wished pettishly, to herself, that her aunt would stop staring. but nothing could drive the lustre from her own eyes and the upward tilt from her lips. she had had such a lovely drive over the wet downs; they had watched the scolding, stamping squirrel in the hazel copse. his dark face had brightened so often. his gaze had rested on her so gently now and again. when he got down to open the wicket gate for her he had gathered a little pale belated monthly rose from the bush at the side, and had given it to her. she would always keep it, always.... her fingers strayed unconsciously over the keys from one harmony to another. they fell into a familiar theme—the chopin prelude, with its sobbing rain-beat accompaniment. she forgot lady gerardine and her dry hostile tones, her cold violating look. following the strong pinions of her art, her young emotions had begun to beat tentative wings, when she was brought down to earth, as once before, very suddenly and with no pleasant shock.
"whom is your music addressed to now, aspasia?" asked lady gerardine, leaning over towards her with folded arms on the piano.
the musician's fingers dropped from the notes.
"to nobody that belongs to you!" she cried rudely, with a flare of schoolgirl anger. her face crimsoned.
lady gerardine's gaze was filled with a lightning contempt. she straightened herself and looked at the empty space on the wall, where harry english's portrait had hung.
"in truth," she said, "my dear, you don't take long to change."
her voice was scornful.
quite taken aback and in a hot rage, aspasia bounced up from the music-stool. but before a coherent word could relieve her, major bethune came in upon them.
when her anger had somewhat cooled down—never a lengthy process with aspasia—she began to feel a sort of wonder at herself. what, indeed, had become of the pale, gallant ghost that she had set up to worship in the shrine of her heart? gone, gone after the way of ghosts, before the first ray of real sunshine—bethune's hand-clasp, his softened glance, his rare smile. with the realisation of her own fickleness came another, so overwhelming in its suggestion, that all else was swept away by it. she was in love! ... in love for the first time, really, unmistakably, aspasia cuningham, who had meant to devote her whole life to her art.
bethune wondered, in his blundering masculine way, what blight had fallen in the little dining-room, to render their wontedly harmonious meeting of the three at meals so constrained that day.
but when, later, lady gerardine and her niece found themselves once more alone, the memory of her curious resentment seemed to have faded from the elder woman's mind, to have been erased by a fresh tide of thought, as footprints on the sands are washed away by the waves.
old mary had been with her in the gloaming; old mary, with her tender memories of the dead past, her mystic whispers of present hauntings.
"eh, ma'am, he's been very near to us, these days," she said. "last night, now, i heard his step come down the passage, as plain, as plain as ever i heard anything. i always knew his step among a thousand, ma'am, from a child; a clean, clear step, with never a slur nor a slouch; not as most people walk."
"oh, mary," cried lady gerardine, a thrill, half exquisite, half terrible, running through her, "why does he come back now?"
"why, ma'am, it's because of you, i'm thinking," said the old woman, simply. "you're just calling him back to you."
"oh, mary!"
"does that frighten you, ma'am? doesn't it make you glad? why, the other evening, they had not lit the lamps yet in the hall, and i felt him pass me—his own presence, just as i feel yours there. nothing of the grave, of the cold about it, but warm, comfort—heaven's warmth. oh, god is good, ma'am! he makes all easy."
"god is good," said rosamond to herself, weighing the words, as she sat alone. "is god good?"
and within her some voice of truth answered her: answered that god had been good, even to her; had meant well with her; very well, even in her bereavement, could she but have taken his ruling as these women of harry's old home.
thus, when she was found by aspasia, there was no room in her heart for any lesser thought.
